Jealousy
by ForzaDelDestino
Summary: Part 3 in “The Prat’s in Love” series. Youthful angst abounds in Camelot. Arthur and Merlin are barely speaking, Gwen loves two men, Morgana’s confused about everything. Insomnia, speculation, humor, slash, fluff. Ch. 1-5.
1. Chapter 1: Meditations

Sequel to "Don't Tell Merlin's Mum...or Arthur's Dad." Part 3 in "The Prat's in Love" series. Youthful angst and hormones abound in Camelot. Arthur and Merlin are barely speaking. Gwen loves two men. Morgana's confused about everything and everybody. Anxiety, insomnia, speculation, self-analysis, humor, slash, and fluff. Minor refs to Season 2.

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**Chapter 1: Meditations**

"Gaius!"

Camelot's court physician turned his head as Agnes, one of the castle cooks, barreled down the hallway in his direction. Caught without his glasses, he couldn't quite make out what it was she was waving at him until she was quite close. The object she brandished in his face turned out to be a rolled up piece of parchment, and her own round and dimpled countenance was flushed with annoyance.

"Well, Agnes?" he said mildly, waiting for her to catch her breath.

"This be from the Lady Morgana," she finally said, "Her be in such a state, poor lovey."

Gaius squinted at the unrolled parchment and could just discern Morgana's elegant and fluid hand. The note was a simple request to forgo breakfast for the foreseeable future; she was fatigued and did not wish to be awakened early. Gaius read it aloud for Agnes, who looked considerably put out.

"Ee baint going to ask her about it?"

"She suffers from nightmares," Gaius replied, realizing that this was hardly a satisfactory answer. "And she has little appetite in the morning."

"Her baint the only one," Agnes almost shouted, and from the tirade that poured from her lips Gaius was able to make out that Prince Arthur wasn't eating well either, and that this sad malady seemed to have extended to other young folk, namely Morgana's maid and the prince's manservant. None of this sat well with the kitchen staff, who were collectively dismayed at the amount of untouched food that had been returned to them over the past week.

Having offered enough compliments to reassure Agnes that her abilities as a cook were indeed highly appreciated, Gaius made his way back to his private chambers and sat down on his bench with such a resounding thump that several glass vials on the worktable fell over with a crash. Really, he was getting to be as bad as Merlin!

With this thought, he took a step towards the little stairway to Merlin's bedroom; one glance from the foot of the stairs enabled him to see at once that it was empty, and in its usual state of total disarray. No doubt he was delivering the crown prince's morning meal, and afterwards he would probably come racing through the door, swallow Gaius' porridge in a single mouthful, and then dash out to the stables to saddle Arthur's horse, or back to the prince's room to polish his armor or some such mundane task. Except that now that he thought about it, Merlin hadn't been spending as much time with Arthur as he usually did, and had been spending much _more_ time in Gaius' workroom than he ever had before. This state of affairs had been going on for a week, and although Gaius had been aware of it he had not given it a great deal of consideration. Until now.

And, come to think of it, of late he had seen remarkably little of either Morgana or her handmaid, Guinevere. As nearly everyone in the castle had become aware, Morgana's nightmares had not abated, and she frequently rose from her bed with a fierce headache due to lack of rest. Indeed, Gaius seemed to be spending most of his time trying to come up with an effective soporific for her. Lack of sleep had also made Morgana testier than usual with Arthur, and their squabbling had become a more or less daily event. Gwen had taken to sitting up with her mistress at night, but she too appeared to be suffering from a form of malaise. She had lost her characteristic sparkle and Gaius, who had seen several generations of young people come and go in the servant's quarters, quite naturally assumed that this had something to do with her feelings for a man. Gaius resolutely refused to even think of who this might be.

Arthur appeared to be carrying on much as usual, leading military exercises in the morning, practicing with every type of weapon known to Albion in the afternoon, hunting during his spare moments, or patroling the perimeter of the castle town when King Uther thought it necessary. But he spent little time in the castle itself, and perhaps even the densest members of the court must have noticed that Merlin was very rarely at his side these days.

If Gwen's problem had to do with unrequited love for a man, Gaius fretted, Arthur's very likely had something to do with his young servant.

As for Merlin, he had not really been his usual cheerful self for the past three weeks–since that unfortunate incident with the bounty hunter and the Druid girl. But could this account for the sudden coolness between himself and Arthur, who, after all, knew nothing about it? Gaius' famous eyebrows drew together as he came close to slapping himself on the head. Why hadn't he seen it before? He had been of the opinion that no one but himself knew that Merlin had aided the Druidess, and that he had done so out of more than just feelings of pity and compassion. Perhaps Arthur had found out? Perhaps someone (goodness knows who) had seen something, and that was why Merlin and the crown prince were on the outs. Why else would Merlin be avoiding Arthur's chambers and hanging about the workroom with an elderly scholar who, in spite of being the closest thing to a father figure that Merlin had, was not likely to provide the kind of companionship offered by his youthful peers. Or by a golden haired warrior-prince who was the most important person in his life.

Gaius was no fool. For years he had been witness to the chaotic ups, downs, and other extremes in the emotional life of young adults. He sensed that the conflict in Morgana's soul had something to do with magic, with the Druids, and with King Uther's inflexibility on both subjects. That the object of Gwen's affections must be someone beyond her reach, a person outside of her social sphere–someone who was clearly not free to return her love–or perhaps a certain would-be knight whose whereabouts were unknown. And that the estrangement (if one could call it that) between Arthur and Merlin must be related to what Gaius discreetly called (although never aloud and only to himself) their _preference_ for each other's company.

Were any physician to come up with a cure for moodiness, lovesickness, and fits of jealousy, he would surely be able to retire almost immediately, with enough gold to last a lifetime, or to buy his own bloody kingdom if he was so inclined.

Gaius closed his eyes and groaned mentally.

For all the aches and pains of old age, he was glad he wasn't young anymore.

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Crown Prince Arthur of Camelot was accustomed to the clumsiness of his manservant. He had gotten used to it, even found it rather endearing.

Over the course of the past few days, during which conversation between the two had dwindled to practically nothing, it seemed as though Merlin had suddenly become more awkward than usual. Only that morning he had managed to knock over a flagon of watered wine, which had spilled all over Arthur's half-eaten breakfast.

"You're a walking disaster, Merlin," the crown prince had said, although he spoke without heat and in a quiet voice.

"That's me," Merlin had replied without meeting the prince's eyes. "A catastrophe waiting to happen."

Arthur had made no comment, merely lowering his head to stare fixedly at his plate. It had been several days since he had last rebuked Merlin in the usual way, and Merlin was more than a little surprised to find that he actually _missed_ being called an idiot.

It was an hour since Merlin had left the room, taking the remains of the breakfast with him, and Arthur was leaning against the cold stone of the window embrasure, looking out at the courtyard and his impossible manservant, who was now trying–with limited success–to wrestle a leather collar over the head of one of Arthur's favorite hunting hounds.

Merlin was too far away for Arthur to see him clearly, and the prince backed away from the window–just a little–so that Merlin would not be able to see him if he looked up. Arthur enjoyed watching Merlin when Merlin didn't know he was being watched; when his manservant was at work in his chamber he took pleasure in noting every little change of expression on that narrow face with those mobile features, remarkable cheekbones, and (_God have mercy!_) that pillowy lower lip. He loved the candor in the slate blue eyes, and on the one or two occasions when he had seen Merlin performing magic, he had been entranced to see those eyes suddenly glow amber-gold. Not that he would ever admit it, of course. Certainly not to Merlin.

Taking another step back from the window Arthur reflected that, in the eyes of most of the world, it was entirely unbecoming for a prince to admit to jealousy when the object of one's passion came from the lower classes. To admit to the passion at all was probably inexcusable from most people's point of view. And jealousy was an emotion that was relatively new to him. Only a week ago he had heard one of the kitchen maids telling a groom that Prince Arthur's young manservant had been seen holding hands with a _girl_, late at night, in the streets of the lower town–and his stomach had turned to ice even as his mind settled into a cold fury. The very thought that Merlin had a life of his own outside of the castle's sphere was unsettling, although he knew it was hardly wise to be so affected by it, to be so possessive.

To a young man raised among courtiers, accustomed to the automatic deference or even worship of servants and local townspeople, Merlin had become a never-ending source of surprise. Getting to know him had been like unwrapping a present, or peeling the many layers of skin off an onion, and still never quite reaching the core.

"You're like an onion, Merlin," Arthur had once said without bothering to think what this sounded like.

Merlin, not surprisingly, had looked mildly affronted by this comparison.

Putting aside the issue of his magic, how much did he really know about Merlin? And what did he know? That he was clumsy, forgetful (would he ever learn to knock before opening a door?), stubborn (how many times had Arthur told him to_ stay at home_, but he had followed the prince into danger anyway). That he could be irritatingly clueless to the point that Arthur wanted to take him by the shoulders and shake him _hard._

At the same time, he knew that Merlin got on well with nearly everybody, was friendly, had a good sense of humor. That he might be naive, but that he had much more intelligence than most people gave him credit for. That he was easy to be with, sensitive to others' feelings, but also that he had a temper, witness the roughness of their first two encounters in Camelot. Arthur could still feel the slim, wiry wrist in his hand as he twisted the boy's arm behind his back, remembered the anger in the blue eyes, the thin, flared nostrils, the skin drawing tight over those high cheekbones as he set his jaw, clenching his teeth to bite back a furious retort when Arthur identified himself as the king's son. Since then he had rarely seen Merlin in a state of rage, but he had never forgotten the strange _frisson_ he had experienced when their eyes locked the very first time they met.

"There's something about you, Merlin," he had said after their second, also somewhat violent, meeting. "I can't quite put my finger on it."

Well, in some respects, he still couldn't.

"I'm an open book," Merlin had claimed, much later, although Arthur realized he was anything but. He was a mixed bag of contradictions. A stammering, socially awkward youth with scruffy hair and prominent ears...

_(Oh sod it, Arthur, his mind nagged at him, the ears and the haircut don't matter. You know he's a pleasure to look at, as the ladies–not to mention some of your own bloody knights–have noticed.)_

...whose seeming frailty hid an iron resolve, steadfast determination, and unshakable loyalty. Whose outward timidity concealed his inner fearlessness. A country innocent on the surface, whose odd assortment of accomplishments Arthur was just beginning to ferret out bit by bit.

There was, for example, Merlin's love of music. He might hum tunelessly all over the place until Arthur snapped at him to _please shut up_, and he had no formal training of course, but he knew bits and pieces of old lyrics and songs from the Appendix Virgiliana to the poetry of Venantius Fortunatus. He must have had quite a liberal education for a country boy, or perhaps his mother (about whose upbringing Arthur knew little, although he found it hard to believe that she was simply an ordinary peasant) had taught him. Arthur, who was well-read, had also been taken aback by Merlin's occasional reference to the names of classical authors, learned perhaps from some wandering scholar passing through the village of his childhood.

That he was literate at all was surprising, considering his humble background. He could read and write the common tongue, and also had what he called "just a smattering" of vocabulary from old Celtic languages and Frankish, and even a little Latin (the latter gleaned primarily from his studies with Gaius).

Since giving Merlin access to his own private library it had become one of the prince's secret pleasures to watch his young manservant read, ploughing through manuscript after manuscript, his face intent, forelock of black hair tumbling over his knitted eyebrows, slender fingers turning the pages of volumes or unrolling scrolls with the greatest of care. Eventually he would raise his head, eyelids slightly reddened, eyes soft and unfocused, lips parted in the faintest of smiles, and Arthur would have to grip the arms of his chair to keep from doing something untoward, because Merlin was never so desirable as when he was in this bemused and dreamy state.

When it came to matters of love, or, to put it bluntly, when it came to sex–ah, that was the crux of the matter and the reason behind Arthur's ill humor. He knew perfectly well that he had been Merlin's first lover, and by the same token he was aware that he wanted to remain Merlin's only lover. He also knew that this was unfair; after all, he would marry someday (he had no choice), take a woman to his bed (which he had done any number of times before Merlin came into his life), and beget an heir. Well and good–it was his duty. But at the same time, he didn't want Merlin to have anybody else. He had no wish to see Merlin smile, with both mouth and eyes as he sometimes did, at another person, did not want anybody, woman or man, to touch him. Above all, he did not want anyone else to see Merlin as only he had seen him: pale and exhausted but happy, lying with eyes half-closed on the grass of a forest clearing, or on the linen sheets of Arthur's canopied bed.

And now people were saying there was a girl in Merlin's life.

When he closed his own eyes his memory let him feel the warmth of Merlin' breath against his cheek, the silkiness of his ivory skin, the magic (yes, magic) of his embrace, his sensitive touch, the surprising strength in his thin, coltish limbs. The planes, hollows, and sharp angles of his strangely beautiful face. The way his dark eyelashes fluttered beneath Arthur's lips when Arthur held him in his arms. This did not help matters_ at all_.

Not the slightest bit.

Bloody hell!

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Gwen put a final pot to soak in the largest of the kitchen washbasins before turning her head to look at Merlin. He had just deposited the tray containing Arthur's half-eaten breakfast on the table, and was now in the process of scraping leftovers into a pail destined for delivery to the hog pens.

"It looks as though Arthur's appetite is getting to be as pathetic as yours," she commented. "I mean, it's bad enough, you eating like a bird, but when Arthur does we know something's really amiss."

"And the toast wasn't even burnt this time," Merlin replied with a wry smile.

He didn't particularly feel like smiling but he had noticed the dark circles under Gwen's eyes, and what looked like the marks of tears. In spite of the dull ache in his own heart he felt for her–poor Gwen! A servant like himself, kindhearted and pretty, but without benefit of the magic that simmered away inside him, bubbling to the surface every now and then in ways that sometimes (thanks to Gaius' praise for his abilities) made him realize how privileged he was. Here she was, poor girl, bereft of the father who had raised her, an orphan in the court of the man who had all but ordered his death. Fighting the attraction he knew she felt for two men, the crown prince and the mysterious Lancelot. Perhaps even slightly conflicted by feelings she had once entertained toward Merlin himself. His own problems–Arthur was still barely speaking to him–seemed to dwindle in the face of her confusion.

As he walked past her to deposit the bucket by the kitchen door he squeezed her shoulder and saw her eyes brighten a little.

"You taught me everything I know about armor," he ventured, trying to make her smile. "Perhaps a clever girl like you can show me how to make toast without burning it."

"Good lord, Merlin," she replied. a corner of her mouth curving upwards, rising to the bait as he had hoped she would. "It's hardly advanced science. Just don't hold the toasting fork too close to the flame, that's all."

For a moment the most ludicrous image flashed through Merlin's tired brain: himself brandishing a loaf of bread on a toasting fork as the Great Dragon huffed and puffed, deliberately charring it to a cinder with his fiery breath. He coughed and bit the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing.

"Even if I get the toast right," he continued, "I seem to burn almost everything else. Good job I don't have to cook as well as clean."

"That's why Camelot has a kitchen staff," Gwen retorted. "So that you don't have to."

"I cooked dinner for Gaius last week, remember? He said it was fortunate there was plenty of wine to go with it."

"Just stay away from the cider while you're working," Gwen advised, wincing at the mere thought of any venture by Merlin into the culinary arts. "You can't get intoxicated and cook at the same time. Apart from that, it only takes practice."

Merlin made a mental note never, _ever_ to study his treasured book of magic while attempting to cook a meal...never, ever again. It was a miracle Gaius' kitchen hadn't exploded. Bad enough that the chicken in the stew pot had sprouted an extra head and regrown its feathers.

"Are you _listening_, Merlin? Gwen said sternly.

"Is that a lead-in to a comment about my ears?"

Gwen had to stifle a giggle. "No...it's just that you probably cook the way you clean. Practice is the key."

"Practice? Ah Gwen, that's not fair," he replied, giving her his most wide-eyed, innocent look. "You know I don't get to actually _cook_ anything for any of you very often."

"Thank God for that," came the tart reply. "Otherwise we'd all be starving."

Merlin was mentally scrambling for a witty response when he noticed that the mournful look had returned to Gwen's face, and she appeared to be nearly on the verge of tears. The urge to laugh left Merlin at the same moment.

"Everything's going to be alright, Gwen," he said gently, trying to meet her eyes without appearing to study her.

Gwen did not even make a pretense of _not_ studying Merlin because she _was_ studying him. Dear Merlin. She had always been fond of him, from the day he first arrived in Camelot and she had looked out of a castle window to witness his challenge to Arthur in the courtyard below. Had she fancied him a little, then? Perhaps so, but since that time he had become a close friend, more like a brother than anything else (adorable as he was, and oh my, didn't he have a lovely profile, she hadn't really noticed before). Now she was all tied up in knots over two such different men... Lancelot, whose smouldering, dark magnificence and undeniable talent as a fighter contrasted with his humility, his sense of insecurity, his tenderness. And Arthur, golden and arrogant, born to greatness, whose basic kindness and compassion were usually _very_ well hidden beneath what Merlin called his prat-ish facade.

Well, Lancelot had pledged his love to her. He had sworn never to love anybody else. And Arthur? He had never told her he loved her, but he had kissed her. He had risked death to save her. In some way, although she was not quite sure which way, he cared about her. Then did he have no feelings for Morgana, beautiful, high-strung, and noble as she was? His childhood comrade with whom he had sparred verbally for years? His eyes occasionally followed Morgana as she walked by; he might argue with her constantly, but he shared a bond with her as well. Yet if Arthur had ever harbored a passion for Morgana, Gwen couldn't see it. At all.

Who else could Arthur possibly love, if in fact (damn him!) he truly loved anyone? It had been a while since she and Morgana had privately voiced their suspicions about the fondness that the crown prince appeared to harbor for his young attendant. It was hidden beneath a brusque demeanor and comments that were far from complementary but it was there, Morgana had insisted, and Gwen had to acknowledge that she was probably right. There was no question that Arthur liked his manservant and depended on him, forgetful as Merlin could be when it came to his household duties and responsibilities. As for Merlin, his devotion (of whatever sort) to the prince was undeniable, in spite of Arthur's high-handedness and sarcastic remarks about idiots and incompetents. Since his arrival at court, a scrawny youngster, he had risen in the estimation of almost everyone except the king, and of late Arthur had openly shown him a kind of rough, brotherly affection almost as frequently as he derided him for his clumsiness. Until a week or so ago they had been almost inseparable, walking together, riding together, the fair head and the dark head bent close together when they spoke. That there was more to their friendship than boyish camaraderie had become increasingly apparent to both Morgana and Gwen over the past several months. (Gwen didn't think Arthur would put up with anyone but Merlin calling him a _clotpole_.) The girls seldom spoke openly of their suspicions, as word of anything beyond a master-servant relationship could only cause trouble or worse. No matter what her own feelings for Arthur might be, Gwen could never put Merlin in danger. Uther, no doubt, would have Merlin's head on the chopping block before you could say "ax."

Damn Arthur! And poor Merlin.

"The next time you decide to cook for Gaius," Gwen said breezily, just to break the silence. "I think you'd best ask me for some help."

"Whatever," Merlin replied absently.

"No really, Merlin,I'm serious."

""And I'm grateful."

Gwen and Merlin looked each other in the eyes again, smiling brightly. It would have been difficult to say which pitied the other more.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

The lady Morgana pressed her fingers against her temples and sighed. Her headache had diminished, thanks to Gaius' ministrations, but her fatigue was almost overwhelming. Listlessly she moved away from her window and let herself fall across her bed, closing her eyes for at least a semblance of rest, and making an effort to sort out her tangled thoughts.

The visions that came to her in the night were terrifying and exhausting, but in the here and now she was beginning to find life in the castle almost impossible to cope with. To maintain her sanity she stayed as far away from the king as possible, seeing him only at mealtimes and for state occasions. In her less confused, more lucid moments she realized that Uther loved her–perhaps a _trifle_ more than he should–and genuinely wished to protect her from the dangers of the world. But she could not face him without thinking of the people he had ordered executed, without thinking of Gwen's father, or of Mordred, the strange child with the impassive stare, and beautiful eyes that reminded her a little of Merlin, although Merlin's eyes were clear as rainwater whereas Mordred's were like ice...a chilling mixture of blue and grey. She had saved Mordred, she, Merlin, and Gwen; even Arthur had helped them smuggle the child out of the castle. But Uther would have killed him, and Morgana could not completely forgive him for that, nor for the deaths of others.

Until recently she had always been able to confide in Guinevere, and her confidences had been returned. But now she felt that Gwen–her dearest friend as well as her maidservant–was hiding something from her. Of course the poor thing was infatuated with that patently gorgeous, here-again-gone-again Lancelot, and was understandably gloomy over the wretched man. _Not_ the most reliable fellow; if he truly loved her, why the devil wasn't he here now? Why not give up the obsession with becoming worthy of knighthood, in favor of a happy marriage to a lovely and loving young woman? However, Morgana suspected that there was a second reason behind Gwen's periodic sadness. Another man, perhaps? Today, for the first time, some strange feeling within her said "Arthur," although Gwen had never said anything to her along those lines, and the very thought of such a pairing gave Morgana a twinge of...yes, jealousy. Although she knew there was no real romantic love between herself and the crown prince, Morgana had always counted on Arthur's (unspoken) appreciation of her beauty, as well as the remnants of a rocky affection that endured from their childhood friendship, and his sporadic willingness to assist her in the face of Uther's hard-heartedness. It was strange, she told herself, that she should feel this tiny spurt of jealousy about Gwen when she suspected it was actually Merlin who had captured Arthur's heart.

Well, if Gwen felt love for Arthur as well as Lancelot, that would explain her recent melancholy, poor thing! And why she seemed to be avoiding any part of the castle she knew Arthur to be in, unless her presence was absolutely required.

And lately, she had noticed, Arthur and Merlin had nearly stopped speaking. Was it because of that peculiar rumor she had heard, that Merlin had been seen with a girl? Not that Morgana put any real credence in rumors. Still, it was obvious that the rumor had coincided with a sudden coolness between the two young men.

So much heartache! So much secret turmoil! Thank God she wasn't in love, Morgana mused, because something that problematic would definitely drive her over the brink. Not that there was anyone within a ten league radius of Camelot whom she would consider remotely suitable. Well, not really. Arthur might be superbly handsome (there was no denying it) but there was too much history between them, he was more like a foster-brother than a suitor, and he generally annoyed her even more than his appearance impressed her.

_(Imagine being married to Arthur! Between the two of us, we'd manage to break all the castle crockery within a week, what with throwing things at each other's heads. We'd be in and out of Gaius' infirmary on a regular basis.)_

There were no personable young men of her own rank in the immediate vicinity of the castle, unless one counted Arthur's coterie of young knights, and Morgana had always regarded them as mere children on temporary loan from neighboring kingdoms. As for personable young men who were definitely _not_ of her rank, there was really only Merlin. In spite of their vast difference in social status, he was the only male person of her age who had ever treated her with the friendliness of an equal, who had spoken to her with complete frankness and a total absence of the groveling one might expect from a young provincial from a country village. Did she find him attractive? She knew that _he_ liked and admired her, although that was probably as far as his feelings went. His shy inquiries after her health, his short-lived habit of bringing her flowers, and above all his attempts to help her make contact with the Druids had moved her more than she could say. He was aware that she had...well, some form of magical ability, yet he did not seem repelled by this and she was confident that he would say nothing to anyone about it. And yes, he was attractive. His somewhat waif-like good looks, coupled with a coloring similar to her own, held up nicely even when compared to the stalwart and solid masculinity of Arthur or Lancelot. But if her heart fluttered just a little from time to time when Merlin smiled at her, that was all. In any event, her head and her instinct told her that he belonged to Arthur, heart and soul.

Honestly, all of this was enough to put a girl off the idea of romance, for life.

Sighing, Morgana reached up and put her long, black hair back from her face with trembling hands. There was little sense in lying about when she could not sleep. Returning to her window, she stared out at the cloudless sky, and then down to the paving stones below. At one end of the courtyard she could see a frowning Gaius conversing with one of the grooms while his eyes flickered back and forth. Following his glances she identified three figures at various points of the walled-in space: Arthur talking with his captain of the guard and displaying a studied nonchalance, Gwen carrying a basket of fruit from the market, and Merlin with several of the castle hunting hounds on leads. Even from her vantage point it was plain as day that all three were making a concerted effort not to look in each other's direction. As she watched, Gaius gave a visible shrug–his equivalent of throwing his hands up in the air–and stalked off toward the entrance to his workroom. None of the three noticed. With her first humorous thought of the day, Morgana imagined that he must have been longing to knock all of their heads together with a good, solid thwack.

She would have been right.


	2. Chapter 2: Communication

**Chapter 2: Communication**

"Gwen," Morgana said abruptly as she stared into her mirror, in which she had been watching her handmaid moving about the room, "There is something wrong with Arthur and Merlin."

Gwen stepped behind her and began brushing Morgana's hair with a great deal of energy, drawing the boar's bristles through the long, black hair again and again until she felt her mistress relax.

"It's obvious that they're not happy just now," she said after a while, meeting Morgana's eyes in the mirror.

"Well, neither are you, come to think of it," came the reply. "And quite frankly, neither am I. I could shrug it off by saying we're all going through a phase, or there's a fever going round, or some silly sorcerer's put a curse on Camelot, but I know perfectly well that none of those are true."

Gwen bit her lip as she set Morgana's jewelry box on the table next to the mirror.

"Life would be so much simpler if it weren't for love, wouldn't it?" she murmured.

"Oh love, is it?" Morgana drawled. "Of course that would explain Arthur's sulks and Merlin's melancholy. There's been something going on between them for months–we both think so, even if we don't really talk about it–and then, less than two weeks ago, people begin to gossip about a _girl_ in Merlin's life. I don't know if it's true, and what may have happened is about as clear as mud at the moment, but now Arthur's in a snit, and Merlin isn't much better. Men are such babies."

Gwen had to smile in spite of herself.

"We women have no right to gloat, though," Morgana continued, wincing as she pulled off her rings with a vengeance. "Because we can be almost as bad. Look at you, wasting away over Lancelot. And me, completely loveless, with no prospects in sight. Plagued with nightmares about the future instead of dreams of knights in shining armor. We're a pathetic lot, really."

"I'm not wasting away," Gwen protested, studying her own reflection in the mirror.

"The only person in this castle who's moderately happy is_ Uther_," Morgana went on inexorably. "And that's just because he's so sure he's_ right_ all of the time...Now Gwen, should I wear the sapphires or the pearl necklace?"

Gwen frowned.

"I think the pearls..." Morgana said under her breath, waving the necklace in question. Then: "Honestly, if Merlin _did_ have a girl it would serve Arthur right. His lordship thinks far too highly of himself, and it would do him good to be knocked off his pedestal once in a while."

"Oh, I don't know," Gwen murmured, looking down. "It's not as if he mistreats anyone. I mean, I know he bullies Merlin, but he tries to be fair when it comes to the populace. And...and...he's gone against the king's edicts several times in order to protect the townspeople and the–"

"Oh, pffff!" snapped Morgana, dropping the pearls in her agitation. "Arthur usually does what daddy says."

"Not always," Gwen said in a tiny voice.

Morgana seemed entirely unable to stop her tirade. "I don't understand why Arthur's acting so put upon," she said, glowering furiously at her jewelry box. "After all, there've been any number of girls in _his_ past, or so I think. And he hears about one lone girl who may, I repeat _may_, have been seen in Merlin's company and he goes all to pieces with jealousy. Stupid boy."

Gwen couldn't help it, she had to laugh. Heartsick as she had been about the two men in her life (_oh honestly Gwen, neither of them is actually __**in**__ your life, because Arthur's taken himself out of it and Lancelot's not __**here**_), she couldn't resist it when Morgana went into one of her rants about Arthur and his many faults.

"Speaking of Merlin," Morgana went on in a much calmer tone, "He should be here at any moment. Gaius has some new concoction for me to take; he says I should drink it in the afternoon and I'll sleep through the night–if it works."

Glancing out of the window, Gwen caught sight of Merlin dashing across the courtyard, dodging fellow servants, hunting hounds, and a cluster of Arthur's knights. As she watched, he took a flying leap over Brutus, the largest (and fiercest) of the hounds, and disappeared through the doorway to Gaius' chambers. That was Merlin: awkward as a two-year-old at one moment, unexpectedly nimble as a mountain goat the next. The hound, who had had its eye on Merlin's ankle, was left snapping at empty air. The sight set Gwen into a fit of giggles that turned into great gusts of laughter. When she finally wiped her eyes and caught her breath, she could feel the painful bands that had been constricting her heart begin to ease. Gaius had always said that laughter was one of the best healing medicines, and it seemed that he was right.

She could always count on Merlin to make her feel better, bless him!

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Merlin was racing up the stairs to Gaius' workroom when he nearly ran over Arthur, who was coming out.

"Merlin, for God's sake!" the prince remonstrated as his manservant came to a screeching halt inches from his chest.

"Sorry," Merlin gasped, ducking his head and staring at Arthur's boots. "Late...have to bring Morgana her sleeping draught...Gaius says...it has to be delivered...while it's fresh."

Arthur snorted.

"Morgana says those almost never work anyway," he said dismissively. He reached out as though to clap Merlin on the shoulder, but drew his hand back and waited until Merlin stopped wheezing before he spoke.

"I just got one from Gaius, myself," he murmured, waving a small glass vial in Merlin's face. "Of course I don't know if it'll work for me either. But I had trouble sleeping last night. And the night before. It must have been the roast boar."

This amounted to more than he had said to Merlin over the past several days, but the young man knew better than to jump to any conclusions. So he was respectfully silent until Arthur continued.

"I've got some reading I have to do this evening." The prince was eyeing the vial in his hand with skepticism. "Before he left on his visit to the northern kingdoms, Father suggested I try one of Gaius' potions and have a bit of a lie-in the next morning. Can you imagine? He's never said anything like that before. You know what he thinks of late risers."

Merlin, an occasional late riser, knew quite well what Uther thought of _him_.

"The reading won't take me long," Arthur went on, still staring at the vial as though it were the most fascinating object in Camelot. "You can come in and clear away before I go to bed. I won't be needing you tomorrow until dinner, but I'll be on patrol in the late morning, so you can saddle my horse. Unless I change my mind and decide on sword practice tomorrow morning."

"Of course, sire," Merlin said politely, his gaze still on Arthur's boots. When he felt the prince's light touch on his shoulder, he nearly jumped out of his own.

"I'll see you later, then," Arthur rapped out as he slid between Merlin and the wall. Then he was gone, and Merlin took a deep breath before continuing up the last few stairs to Gaius' door.

He hoped that Gaius would say nothing about the prince's visit. It was clear that more and more people were becoming curious about Arthur's distant treatment of him (thank God Uther had just departed for his diplomatic visit to the north), and he guessed that his friends–Gaius, Gwen, and Morgana–were dying to hear some explanation for it. Which he was not ready to supply, as he wasn't even sure that he had one. At the moment, he wanted nothing better than to curl up on his bed with his book of magic and study until his eyes closed of their own accord.

Duty came first, however. He would deliver Morgana's sleeping medicine, help Gaius in the workroom before dinner, and tidy up after Arthur in the evening.

It would be like running the gauntlet.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

When Morgana heard the knock at her door, she was ready for it. Or she had been, before trying to pull her outer robe over her head without the assistance of Gwen. She had been waiting for the delivery of Gaius' latest attempt at a sleeping draught, and as it was oppressively warm and stuffy in her bedchamber she had wanted to change her heavy outer garment for a lighter one. Now she was completely tangled in folds of crimson brocade.

"One moment, please!" she shouted, flailing frantically, but her voice was muffled by what felt like a massive tent of fabric. She heard the door open, a stammered apology, and then the door closed again.

She knew at once who it had been. No one else in Camelot opened a door without first being told they could do so.

With an effort she heaved the robe over her head. She heard a seam rip, but no matter, Gwen would fix it later. A glance in her mirror told her that she looked quite presentable in her silk gown of a lighter shade of red; the voluminous over-garment had been entirely superfluous.

Straightening her shoulders in an effort to regain her sense of dignity, Morgana pulled the door open and came face to face with Merlin. He was extending a bottle of one of Gaius' concoctions in her direction, eyes averted, a blush staining those high cheekbones.

"Oh for pity's sake, Merlin, there's no need to look like you've seen something you shouldn't have," she murmured with a touch of embarrassment. "What on earth has Gaius sent me this time?"

"Tincture of valerian, I think, with something else...St. John's Wort?"

"Well whatever it is, it probably won't work better than any of the others," Morgana said with a grimace. "And why is it that they all have to taste so nasty? You can take this empty vial back to Gaius now, or are you stopping in Arthur's chamber first?"

"No," came the almost inaudible reply. "Not until after the evening meal, when he's ready to retire."

Morgana set Gaius' tincture on the mantlepiece so sharply that both almost expected to hear the glass crack.

"Merlin," she said abruptly, "What's wrong between you and...I mean, what's wrong with Arthur? He's in the worst sulk I've seen in years."

Merlin opened his mouth and then closed it again.

Morgana narrowed her eyes and Merlin realized that he was in for an interrogation, but to his immense relief Gwen chose the moment to enter the room with a pile of Morgana's nightclothes in her arms.

Merlin courteously turned his gaze away from the night garments, which Gwen proceeded to deposit in one of Morgana's clothes chests, and began to edge towards the door. But it was too late: Morgana was not going to let him go so easily.

"_Mer_lin," she said authoritatively, sounding remarkably like Arthur. "Surely you can tell us something. My lord the crown prince has his faults, but it's not like him to be this out of sorts for so long."

"Really?" said Merlin with what he hoped was a convincingly clueless look. "Well, you've known him for so much longer than I have."

Morgana pressed her lips together tightly, never a good sign.

"You're stalling, Merlin," she announced accusingly. "Is he angry with _you_?"

"He very often is," Merlin replied honestly.

"But he's not talking to you. To be frank, he's hardly talking to anyone."

Merlin rolled his eyes and shrugged his shoulders.

"What! Now you're not talking either?" Morgana was close to shouting, and Merlin could see that Gwen was trying to repress her laughter.

"I'm sorry, my la...Morgana," he managed to say with a straight face. "But I haven't any...I don't even know that he's angry. Arthur hasn't told me anything. Not why he's upset. Or whether he's upset with me. Or, well...anything," he finished feebly, hoping that she would let the matter rest.

"Arthur's right about one thing," Morgana went on, "You're a terrible liar, it's quite easy to tell when you're lying."

"Actually," Gwen ventured with a sympathetic glance at Merlin. "Arthur isn't what I would call much of a talker. Oh, he likes to banter with his knights, or discuss weapons and battles with them, but..."

Merlin nodded his head in vigorous agreement, and began to edge towards the door again.

"Arthur," mused Morgana, half to herself, "is quite good at the casually cutting remark and the sarcastic sneer. But it's true, he really isn't the most communicative of men. Goodness knows the sort of thing he'd say to anyone who's, well, an object of affection."

Then she looked sideways at Merlin to gauge his reaction.

Once again Merlin shrugged his shoulders expressively, while privately thinking that Arthur was far more communicative physically than he was verbally. He had, after all, spent most of his life in military training, and was more accustomed to making a point through a strike against a combatant than by verbal dexterity. In diplomatic situations he was polite and precise in his speech, and could be eloquent when the occasion called for it, but in everyday conversation he often resorted to the kind of staccato, boyish style of address he had displayed the very first time he and Merlin had crossed paths.

And, he reflected as he felt himself flush, Arthur rarely said anything when they were together in bed, or wherever it was that they managed to find an hour or so of privacy. The prince's words of love consisted of little beyond repetitions of the word _mine_, or sometimes _Merlin_, usually growled in a possessive whisper into Merlin's ear, or against his throat, or into his hair just above the nape of his neck.

Both girls watched with a kind of fascination as Merlin's blush traveled south from his brow to the laces that fastened his shirt at the neck.

"I suppose," Morgana murmured, still eyeing Merlin, "Arthur's been listening to silly gossip. That's the only answer as far as I can tell."

"Gossip," Merlin said lamely, wondering if he should make a run for the door or simply leap out of the window.

"Oh," Morgana continued, finally releasing him from her eagle-like stare. "You know what downstairs gossip is like."

The door made more sense than the window, as a leap from the window would very likely result in grievous bodily injury.

"I don't actually spend _that_ much time downstairs–" Merlin began, hoping against hope that this would shut Morgana up.

"One of the servants said–oh you must have heard this–that she saw you with a girl, and if Arthur–"

There was a loud knocking with what sounded like a mailed fist, and Merlin, who had been measuring the distance to the door with his eyes, raced to open it.

One of Uther's knights stood there, looking a little sheepish.

"Asking your pardon my lady," he said with great deference, "But the steward is awaiting your instructions for the evening meal. And after that, he wishes to speak with you about new livery for the house servants."

"Oh _no_!" Merlin heard Morgana groan under her breath, but she smiled at the knight, smoothed out her skirts, rolled her eyes despairingly at Gwen and Merlin, and hastened down the hallway with her quick, lithe stride. Merlin let out a deep breath and slumped against the carved stone mantlepiece of the massive fireplace. Gwen looked at him questioningly but he shook his head.

There was not a chance that he would ever discuss the servants' gossip about the girl he had been seen with. It was fortunate that no one from the household staff, apart from himself and Gaius, knew much of anything about the poor little Druidess whose predicament had torn at his heartstrings and made him want to protect her. Well, she was beyond the reach of her persecutors now, poor thing. He had been drawn to her. He would not forget her. But that did not mean she had replaced Arthur in his heart.

Gwen nudged him with her elbow, bringing him back from his painful reverie.

"You'd best go now, Merlin," she said with a gentle smile. "If you're here when Morgana comes back she'll start in on you again."

Merlin straightened up and flashed Gwen a grateful grin.

"I'll see you later, then," he muttered and bolted.

Walking absent-mindedly across the courtyard toward Gaius' doorway he was an absolute gift to Brutus the hound, who had been lying in the sun waiting patiently for him to reappear. Before Merlin knew what was happening the dog leaped to his feet and flung himself in the direction of the ankles that had escaped him earlier.

It was too late to run, and there were too many people about for Merlin to even attempt to use a spell. Passersby stopped to watch in amusement as the crown prince's appealing, dark-haired servant was hurled to the ground by the prince's hound, who then stood over him, simultaneously drooling and growling triumphantly.

"Pax," said Merlin to the hound, who was in no mood to listen to him.

As the Master of the Hounds dragged Brutus back to his kennel, it occurred to Merlin that this had been by far the least stressful of his encounters that day–and the day was still far from over.


	3. Chapter 3: Resolution

**Chapter 3: Resolution**

_Merlin is beautiful._

These words–unspoken, naturally–popped into Arthur's head as he and Morgana crossed the dining hall on their way to speak with the castle steward. Uther's absence required them to oversee the activities of the castle's senior staff, and neither of them was looking forward to a talk with Master Aelred. The steward's main focus at the moment was renovation of the tapestries on the walls of the Great Hall, and Morgana muttered that if she heard one more complaint about moths or the inferior workmanship of foreign weavers she was going to be sick.

A number of servants were busy lowering the dining hall chandelier, in order to clean it and replace the candles that had been reduced to stubs by frequent use. Arthur could see Merlin amongst them, precariously balanced on a stool (_for pity's sake, Merlin, watch what you're doing!_), dust in his hair and smudges of dirt on his face and hands. He looked singularly un-beautiful at the moment, but the thought stayed in Arthur's mind as he and Morgana walked past. The massive iron chandelier reminded him of the first time Merlin had saved his life, and of how annoyed he had been when the king conferred the position of prince's manservant upon this odd, unknown boy with whom he had already experienced two confrontations. He remembered how he and Merlin had glanced at each other with undisguised displeasure and apprehension before simultaneously turning away. But even then (although he had refused to admit it at the time), his eyes had noted the pleasing combination of pale skin, black hair, clear blue eyes and lissome frame–even as his brain registered frustration at having this ill-mannered savior foisted off on him.

"What on earth is Merlin doing here?" he mumbled, more to himself than to Morgana. "It's not exactly part of his job."

"Arthur, for pity's sake, Merlin can do as he pleases when he's not working for you," Morgana replied in icy tones. "Does he need your permission to walk, talk, sleep, and breathe?"

"As a matter of fact, he does," Arthur retorted, expecting Morgana to laugh, but instead she gave him the sort of glance a mother might give to a naughty child caught with his hand in the cookie jar.

Several of the servant girls were giggling appreciatively at something Merlin had just said, and Arthur scowled as Merlin smiled back at them.

Ignoring the piercing look that Morgana shot in his direction, Arthur continued across the dining hall without pausing, and he did not see Merlin turn his head to watch him, nor could he have guessed the words that were running through Merlin's mind.

_Arthur is beautiful._

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

"I think Arthur will come to his senses eventually," Morgana said to Gwen over her shoulder as she stood before her mirror. "I mean, it's obvious that Merlin hardly has time for a secret life, let alone a lady love."

"I don't know how Merlin gets any sleep," Gwen murmured as she set Morgana's midday meal on the table. "And I don't know how he finds time to eat. Honestly, when he turns sideways he's practically invisible."

"Yes," Morgana replied absently as she smoothed the heavy silk fabric of her new gown, admiring the tightly fitting bodice, the full skirt flowing outward at the waist. "Perhaps we should have Cook make him some pastries before he disappears altogether."

"I think he's quite nice-looking," Gwen said, shaking out a napkin. "Everyone thinks so. Sir Edgar's wife has been trying to catch his eye for ages now."

"No!" exclaimed Morgana in horror, throwing herself into her chair. "Not that promiscuous creature! She's put so many horns on Sir Edgar's head that he might as well be hanging on the wall downstairs with all of those antlers and other hunting trophies. A year or two ago she was even bragging about having had Arthur. If she so much as lays a finger on Merlin, of all people, I'd be happy to order her banished from court."

"Oh...Sir Edgar's been giving him the hot eye as well," Gwen continued airily.

Morgana burst out laughing. "Poor Merlin! Such an object of desire and the poor boy is totally oblivious! Arthur has nothing to worry about."

As Gwen turned away, still smiling, Morgana gave her a keen look.

"You're much more cheerful this afternoon, Gwen," she remarked. "The letter that came for you just now–that wouldn't be from Lancelot, would it?"

Gwen's dusky cheeks flamed red and Morgana raised one eyebrow.

"Oh, it wasn't much, just a note," Gwen stammered, but her face was glowing. "He never says when he'll come back to Camelot, but it's...I like knowing that he's thinking of me...I mean, of us."

"You mean, of you," Morgana said severely. "Well then, I'm glad to see you looking so pleased. It's a great improvement over this morning. Now if we could just find someone for _me_ to be so silly about, all of our problems...well, most of them...would be solved. Life just isn't fair."

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

"Here Merlin," Gaius said smiling, as he deposited a parcel of heavy, dark cloth in his young friend's lap.

Merlin looked up from his reading. He had been engrossed in his book of magic for well over an hour, and for a moment his eyes wore that deer-in-the-torchlight expression of total confusion that Gaius and others found both amusing and endearing.

"Gaius...what's this?" His fingers picked hesitantly at the heavy fabric.

"I asked Gwen to cut it down for you," the physician replied placidly. "It's been many years since I was able to wear it. And to be perfectly honest, it wasn't my style. But it should look quite appropriate on you.'

Merlin stood up and shook out the folds of fabric. It was a long shirt, almost a tunic, of black velvet. There was no embroidery, no ornament, but the garment was well designed and surprisingly elegant for something so simple.

"Well, try it on," Gaius said impatiently, and Merlin obediently pulled his red shirt over his head and struggled into the new one. It fell heavily from his shoulders but was quite comfortable, and he reached for his neck scarf.

"Oh I think we can dispense with _that _disgraceful rag; no need to spoil the effect," Gaius said gruffly. "Well, it suits you far better than it did me. Have a look."

Merlin dropped the neck scarf and peered at the wavy glass of the old mirror propped against the wall. Everyone said that black made you look thinner, so he did in fact appear almost fragile; but the black velvet made his pale skin glow like alabaster and darkened his eyes to a midnight blue, the richness of the fabric softened his angles; the overall impression was one of ethereal grace.

Then he stumbled over Gaius' footstool and the impression of grace quite disappeared.

"Very good," Gaius rumbled approvingly. "You can wear it on special occasions. Or when you're called upon to wait on the high table while court is in session; you know how Uther puts such value on the appearance of his household servants. But you are _not_ to wear that wretched neck cloth with it, do you understand?"

It took a moment for Merlin to remember his manners and thank his friend and mentor profusely.

Gaius waved away the thanks.

"It was doing no good at all sitting in my clothes chest," he said jovially. "So you can wear it this evening and see what Arthur thinks. We can always have the Pendragon crest sewn onto it if he feels that would be more fitting."

Privately he felt sure that the crown prince would approve of Merlin's appearance, whether the shirt bore the Pendragon crest or not. Arthur had never once commented on his manservant's looks, but Gaius had seen the way his eyes rested on him when he thought no one was looking. Merlin was generally self-effacing and never tried to call attention to himself but his innocent demeanor, his virginal quality, whether he was in fact virginal (which Gaius, by this time, very much doubted) or not, were part of his charm.

Although he had never thought of himself as an arbiter of masculine fashion, Gaius suddenly felt remarkably pleased. He was just doing his bit to get the prince and Merlin back on good terms, he said to himself as he watched his young charge head for the worktable, still clad in the unaccustomed finery.

Merlin reached for a basketful of vegetables, only to be stopped by Gaius' bellow.

"Oi! Merlin! Put your work clothes back on before you start on the beets–do you want stains all down the front of your new shirt?"

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

"Sword practice tomorrow," Arthur said curtly.

Merlin stifled a groan and reflected that this was probably Arthur's notion of the best way to ease his current bad mood: whacking stupid, clumsy Merlin over the helmet with his broadsword before knocking him flat with a blow to the shield.

"Followed by mace work, no doubt," he muttered and was rewarded by the barest hint of a chuckle.

Merlin realized that it had been more than several days since he had seen Arthur really smile. Oh, he had seen the social smile that Arthur displayed when the king held court, and the casual smiles with which he greeted acquaintances and fellow knights, but not the brilliant, heartfelt smile–or even the sarcastic, mocking smile–that Merlin had become accustomed to witnessing in private. The white flash of the prince's grin, displaying a set of decidedly pointed eye teeth and accompanied by a narrowing of those sky blue eyes, was something he had missed, along with the caustic remarks that often accompanied it.

Working methodically, Merlin had tidied Arthur's chamber with an uncharacteristic thoroughness. Now he knelt at the hearth and set a set a pot of wine with mulling spices on an iron trivet just outside of the fire's reach, and straightened up with a sigh. It was quite dark outside, and firelight shone off the leaded glass in the half-closed windows. The prince was sprawled on the bearskin rug in front of the hearth, propped up against several pillows and bolsters, reading through a recent inventory of Camelot's archives, courtesy of Geoffrey of Monmouth.

Although they had barely exchanged more than a few words, the silence between them spoke volumes...enough, Merlin thought wryly, to fill all of the shelves in Geoffrey's archives and then some.

Out of the corner of his eye he could see Arthur fidgeting as his eyes ran down the long, curling sheet of vellum. There was little need to be surreptitious, since Arthur was refusing to look at him. Several minutes later, the prince set the vellum aside and shifted his gaze to the fire. Merlin moved closer, setting the heavy water ewer on the table near the hearth, but Arthur did not turn around, giving Merlin time to stoically admire the prince's imperious profile and the way the firelight brought out every shade of gold in the hair that clung to that shapely head.

_Arthur is VERY beautiful._

It was beginning to look as though another day and night would pass without the two of them having anything resembling a normal conversation.

"_Mer_lin."

Well, that was a good sign. It had been days since Arthur had spoken his name in that way, with the emphasis on the first syllable that implied either anger and exasperation or affection.

"Erm, Arthur?" Merlin tried carefully.

"Hmmnm." Came the absent reply.

"Sire?"

"Oh bloody hell, _Mer_lin, stop calling me that. And pass me the wine, will you, before it boils over."

Merlin knelt at the hearth for a second time, retrieved the pot of simmering wine with the aid of a wadded-up piece of cloth, and poured some of the contents into a goblet. Having executed this maneuver quite deftly, he nearly spoilt it by knocking the goblet with his elbow, but made a spectacular save with one hand, righting the teetering vessel before the wine could spill.

"Ah, well done," muttered Arthur sarcastically.

"I caught it, didn't I? No mess this time."

"That's what manservants are for," Arthur replied with something resembling an evil grin; those pointed eyeteeth gleamed in the firelight and made Merlin want to smile, but he managed to keep his expression calm and serious.

"And now I suppose you'd like me to sweep your fireplace, polish your armor, exercise your dogs, and muck out your stable."

"I think those are all in line with the job description," Arthur said, yawning.

"And you can't sweep the fireplace because there's a fire in it, you idiot," he added a moment later, with an even bigger yawn.

"You're tired sire," Merlin said flatly, watching Arthur rub his eyes, and Arthur did not deny this.

It was unusual for Arthur to have difficulty sleeping. On the rare occasions that Merlin had been able to spend the night in his bed the prince had dozed off quite rapidly, after love, and had slept soundly until morning. He could remember only one occasion on which Arthur had tossed and turned restlessly until Merlin held him and caressed him to sleep–the night following their return from Hengist's fortress, and their rescue of Guinevere.

There had been, actually, one other time, when they had been out hunting and darkness had fallen. Rather than risk stumbling blindly along a forest trail–there was no moon–they had made a makeshift camp and huddled under a single blanket and Arthur's scarlet cloak for warmth. Sleep had evaded them, but when Arthur finally pulled Merlin to him, sliding his arms around his waist, Merlin had protested (halfheartedly), saying that they were too close to Camelot, that some passing townsperson might see them (or hear them), that it was too risky.

"Let me, Merlin," Arthur had whispered.

"But–"

"Let me."

Consequently, they had gotten very little sleep at all that night.

There was no real point in reminiscing about all of this and it was obvious, as well, that Arthur was not in the frame of mind to be reminded of such things. His duties completed, Merlin looked about the room for anything that might need clearing away, but the chamber was undoubtedly the tidiest that it had ever been.

The prince was still yawning and rubbing at his eyes with his knuckles, so Merlin retrieved his wine goblet and set it on the table. Arthur watched him walk across the room, so slim and pale in his unaccustomed black, the refined but simple design of the shirt giving him the appearance of dignity (_oh God, just wait until he trips over a chair leg_). It was difficult to look at him and not want to touch him. Earlier, Arthur had stared from his window as Merlin crossed the dark courtyard, the ivory pallor of his face and hands in dramatic contrast with the black velvet of a garment Arthur didn't recognize, tiny bluish-white lights of fireflies circling above his hair. Arthur was not much given to poetry (he studied it out of a sense of obligation), but he didn't think he had ever seen anything more worthy of a poet's quill than his infuriating manservant crossing the paving stones on his way to bring him his dinner.**

"Merlin," Arthur blurted out before he could stop himself. "Just tell me if it's true. That you have a girl in the lower town."

When Merlin gawped at him, completely taken aback, Arthur regained a little of his composure, along with his authoritative air.

"Not, I suppose, that it's any of my business, but the servants were gossiping about it."

"Really?" Merlin raised his eyebrows. "What are they saying?"

"They're saying--oh, bloody hell _Me_rlin, just tell me if it's true!"

Merlin bit his lip and Arthur steeled himself for an affirmative response. Then he realized that his impossible servant was actually suppressing a frown.

"No, it's not true, Arthur," Merlin said calmly. "There's no girl in the town, there's no girl anywhere. Where these people get their information I don't have a clue."

"Someone saw you with a--"

"I daresay someone did," came the quiet reply. "One night, not long ago, I took food to a young woman who was in need. Who was leaving Camelot to find a living in some other place. She's gone now and she'll never come back."

"But you didn't--"

"Arthur," Merlin said with a touch of exasperation, "I told you I tried to help her. Nothing else."

He sat down on a wooden chest and fiddled with an imaginary loose thread in the hem of his shirt. He usually tried, to the best of his ability, to be honest with Arthur. When the prince had confronted him about his magic he had confessed readily, had told him the truth. On the rare occasions that Arthur asked his opinion about something, his responses were straightforward. But he would not tell him the entire true, sad story of the Druid girl--not now, perhaps not ever. Arthur would not understand. It was too much to expect of him. All of his life he had been told that magic was evil. He had made an exception for Merlin, but it would be a long time before he came to see that magic, in and of itself, could be a force for good. That it could be the basis for feelings of kinship and affection between individuals blessed (or cursed) with its power.

"I'll take an oath, if you like," he said numbly, just wanting this conversation to end. "I'll swear that there is no woman in my life."

"Oh, it's all right," Arthur muttered, looking at the floor. "There's no need for that. I simply thought that you might like...might love...someone else, and I--"

"Arthur," Merlin said evenly, "I'm not going to lie to you. There are girls I've found attractive. I'm fully aware that there's a girl you find attractive, and there's no need to name names. As for the young woman I helped that night...I felt sorry for her, she was lonely and friendless. I didn't, erm, sleep with her, if that's what you're wondering. She's gone now, gone for good. It's true that she moved me. But the person I love, I think I've always loved, and will always love...is you."

Feeling quite drained of energy, he stood up, gathered Arthur's dishes onto a tray, and headed for the door.

Arthur had also risen to his feet, and as Merlin passed him he put out a hand and lightly grasped his upper arm.

"Erm, Merlin, I...that is..."

Merlin's blue eyes widened a little, but he said nothing and waited patiently.

"I, uh...Merlin, I'm...I'm _sorry_ I've been such a...a _prat_."

The prince uttered the words with some difficulty and gnawed at his lower lip. He was clearly embarrassed, but he looked Merlin in the eyes as he spoke. There was a pause during which they stared hard at each other, and then Merlin took a deep breath and smiled disarmingly.

"Did I actually hear you say you were _sorry_?"

"Oh stop it, _Mer_lin, you needn't rub it in," Arthur snapped acidly.

"Oh, didn't mean to."

"You know, you're not always the easiest person to deal with, _Mer_lin."

"On the contrary, sire, I think I've been quite agreeable to anything you've asked of me–"

"_Mer_lin, you idiot, will you _shut up_," Arthur groaned, tightening his grip.

"I don't suppose this means no sword practice tomorrow?" Merlin asked without much hope.

"No...we are _definitely_ having sword practice tomorrow," came the reply.

"I thought you might say that," Merlin mumbled dejectedly.

He heard Arthur mutter, "Don't be _ridiculous_," and then the grasp on his arm tightened further and he was pulled into a rough embrace. There was a crash as the tray and its contents went flying.

"Your fault this time," Merlin said somberly.

From the circle of Arthur's arms, he turned his face toward the door. The pupils of his eyes glimmered liquid gold and the bolt slid silently into place; the key turned in the lock.

As he turned back, his mouth encountered Arthur's and he allowed himself to be pulled down onto the bearskin rug.

The prince's eyes were closed and his kiss was insistent, his arms holding Merlin tightly against him. When the kiss ended–they were both gasping frantically for air–Arthur opened his eyes and as soon as he caught his breath he gave a sigh of contentment. This was what he had been missing for days: Merlin's lean, pliant body, his taste, his faint scent of woodsmoke, herbs, and one or another of Gaius' elixirs. But he wasn't going to capitulate too quickly–did he really want the aggravating, impossible, irresistible idiot to know how much power he had over him, magic or no magic?

When Arthur released his grip on Merlin's shoulder blades and lay back on the bearskin and pillows, breathing fast but not smiling, Merlin knew at once what was expected of him. It was plain that even if the prince had put aside his suspicions and his jealousy, his ego and his feelings were still bruised. Arthur, who (as the more physically aggressive of the two) was usually the one to initiate their lovemaking, wanted Merlin to woo _him_–he wanted to be seduced. Which was something Merlin had not really done before.

Merlin sighed inwardly as his fingers went to the laces of Arthur's shirt. Although he had been completely inexperienced the first time Arthur took him to his bed, and although their moments of privacy were few and far between, he had begun to feel a certain, tentative level of confidence. "I'm a fast learner," he had said to Arthur long ago, after suiting him up in his armor without making any mistakes. To an extent, Arthur's own expertise made it easy to determine what to do. Merlin now knew at which angle to turn his head so that their lips fit together perfectly, he knew how Arthur liked to be touched, he knew how to flatten his palm against the prince's chest, knew how to stroke him, and how to curl his fingers around him. At the moment, Arthur was looking through lowered eyelashes at a spot on the wall somewhere above his shoulder, but Merlin noted the quickened pace of his breathing as he smoothed the prince's fair hair back from his brow with his fingertips and ran those same fingers along the rim of his ear, before proceeding to brush Arthur's jawline and throat with his lips. His hands continued to unlace and unfasten, easing away cloth and leather, and then he paused for a moment, just to look.

Arthur's skin was a pale bronze in the firelight, his body broad at the shoulder and chest, narrow at the waist, beautifully sculpted and taut with muscle. In contrast Merlin was slightly built and the skin covering flesh and elegant bone structure was milky-white. Long-limbed and slim-hipped, he was too thin for the classical sculptor's canon but months of grueling (and humiliating) weapons practice with Arthur had given him a sinewy strength of which he was beginning to be proud. He had never given much thought to his own looks and it was enough for him, now, that Arthur found him beautiful.

"_Mine_," Arthur whispered with his eyes closed, but he still hadn't moved.

Returning to the business at hand, Merlin felt his own breath come faster; he sighed at the contact of their skin and savored the heat that built up between their bodies. Arthur lay quite still, so Merlin relaxed and let instinct guide his hands and mouth; logical thought was quite beyond him at this point anyway. Instinct seemed to be doing a good job, he realized some time later through the haze of his own desire, because the prince was gasping and trembling, and his head was turning from side to side on the pillow.

A moment later Arthur shifted his weight and rolled over, pinning Merlin securely beneath him. It was so sudden that Merlin could only blink owlishly with surprise. Arthur was still panting, but he was smiling as well, and Merlin half expected the word "Idiot!" to come bursting from his lips. Instead, the blond head came to rest against his shoulder, and then a set of rather sharp eye teeth lightly grazed his collarbone.

"My turn," the crown prince of Camelot murmured into Merlin's left ear.

* * *

**** **_**A vague reference to the Merthur "Fireflies" poem I posted on FanFic a while ago.**_

_**Feedback is very welcome. I need to know if I'm overdoing it before I continue.**_


	4. Chapter 4: The Morning After

**Chapter 4: The Morning After**

"_Mer_lin, don't go."

"Arthur...I'm meant to be fetching your breakfast."

"_Mer_lin, stay."

It was still dark in Arthur's bedchamber, but dawn was minutes away and Merlin could sense it. The window shutters were half-closed, but the barest hint of light was beginning to eat away at the darkness, and before long the uppermost edge of the sun would appear over the horizon. Already the faint clatter of household servants drawing water in the courtyard could be heard, and Arthur scowled against Merlin's shoulder.

"No, don't go, Merlin, not yet."

"If you don't eat you won't have the strength for sword practice, you prat." Merlin's soft tenor whisper tickled the crown prince's ear as he tried to extricate himself from Arthur's embrace.

"At this rate everyone will assume stupid Merlin overslept and is late _again_," he added after completely failing to disengage from his tangled position in the rumpled linen sheets.

"Oh very well," grumbled Arthur, releasing him with some reluctance. "Carry on."

The air in the chamber was still chilly and Merlin felt his skin sprouting goose bumps as he sat up, the bedclothes falling away to his waist. He could also feel the prince's eyes on him, and he smiled a little.

"I want you now," Arthur mumbled into the pillow.

" Now? You're joking. _Arthur!_ You're supposed to be on the training ground in an hour."

"Can I have you later, then?" the prince asked, like a child who has been denied a sweet. This was most uncharacteristic of him, and Merlin barely knew what to think, let alone say.

"Are you feeling ill?"

"No, you idiot," Arthur snorted, sounding more like himself. "You don't know how to accept a compliment, do you?"

"I'm not exactly used to receiving them. From you."

He ducked as a pillow soared past his head and slid out of the bed, trying to remember where he had put his shirt.

Gaius' velvet shirt was lying in crumpled, wrinkled splendor on the bearskin rug. Frowning, Merlin picked it up and tried to shake out the wrinkles.

"Starving," came Arthur's mumble from the bed.

"You see," Merlin said, struggling into the shirt and then making an effort to smooth down his hair, which was sticking up in spikes and points all over his head. "You do need your breakfast. If you want to stay battle ready, that is."

"Hah! _Mer_lin. Tell me I wasn't battle ready last night!"

Merlin blushed and rolled his eyes.

"That doesn't count. It never takes you long to knock me flat. If you go up against Bors this morning it'll be a different story. He nearly beat you last week."

"He never!"

"He's awfully good with the quarterstaff."

"You can't say he's better than I am," Arthur said warningly, sitting up. Even in his present, sleepy state of undress, his fair hair tousled and eyes only half-open, he looked formidable.

"Well..."

"The next thing I know, you'll be saying I'm fat."

"Well..."

Another pillow flew past Merlin's head, thrown with a much greater force this time. Brandishing a bolster, Arthur stood up and took a step in his direction.

"I'll only be a moment, Arthur," Merlin said with politely downcast eyes as he unlocked the door and made a hasty exit. He could hear the bolster hit the other side of the door as he closed it and he hurried down the corridor, hoping that no one would take notice of his disheveled state.

The prince's door flew open and Arthur put his head around it.

"Who said anything about fighting Bors this morning?" he said in a loud whisper as Merlin reached the corner. "I'm having sword practice with _you_, remember?"

"I was praying you'd forgotten," Merlin replied before turning the corner and heading for the stairway to the kitchens.

The castle's main kitchen was massive, but a blazing fire in one of the hearths had already chased away the chill morning air. Only a few servants were milling about, but when Merlin entered he saw Gwen standing by the long work table, yawning as she loading a tray with plates of bread and fruit. She looked every bit as tired as he felt, but she greeted him with a warm smile and pushed a bowl of pastries in his direction.

"Oh, Merlin...Morgana asked Cook to make these. She says you're to eat every single one."

Merlin stared down at the pastries. They were oozing with cherry preserves and clotted cream, miniature masterpieces by one of the head cooks (in all likelihood Agnes). He felt sudden gratitude toward Morgana, as difficult and irritable as she had been lately.

"You're not to give them to Arthur, they're all for you."

"I can't very well hide them from Arthur, can I?" Merlin retorted with a grin. "I see that you ladies are trying to fatten me up. There's a legend that the Gauls or the Goths tell about a witch and two little children who–"

"Oh God, don't even say the word 'witch' when the king's about," Gwen muttered, her smile fading. "I swear he can hear it if someone says it ten leagues away."

"Uther?" Merlin raised his eyebrows. "He's in the north on a diplomatic–"

"Not any longer he isn't," Gwen shot back glumly. "Something went amiss, a bridge was washed out or something, or his host was ill. So now he's returned."

Both frowned at this unfortunate turn of events. Gwen never went near the king when she didn't have to, unable to forget his role in her father's death. Merlin, for his part, was thinking that Uther's presence meant he wouldn't be spending any nights in the crown prince's chamber for the foreseeable future. Uther's presence would not make Morgana any happier either.

"Morgana won't be happy about it," Gwen sighed, as though reading his mind. "If only she could keep from snapping at him...it doesn't help, nothing does. I don't suppose you'll be glad to see him either?"

"Oh, I don't mind, really," Merlin said vaguely, eyeing the pastries. "He doesn't speak to me unless he absolutely has to. And then he'll just call me an idiot, as usual, or complain about my mental deficiencies. When did he get back?"

"Aren't you meant to be bringing Arthur his breakfast?" Gwen asked curiously, her eyes taking in Merlin's rampantly untidy hair, his wrinkled shirt, and the dark circles under his blue eyes. "And what is that thing you're wearing?"

"Arthur! I...he's going to murder me," Merlin groaned as he frantically piled food onto a plate and reached for a water ewer. "It's late...and he said he was starving."

"He said he was...so you've already seen him, then," Gwen said slowly, her eyes widening with sudden realization. Morgana had been right all along, and she herself had certainly suspected as much for some time.

There was no time to modify his statement or try for a benign explanation, Merlin thought as he emptied the bowl of pastries into a basket, slung it over one arm, and then seized Arthur's breakfast tray and headed for the door. Glancing back, he could see that Gwen was still staring at him.

"Ah Gwen, please don't be jealous," he murmured to himself as he fled up the stairs, plates rattling. "May the gods send Lancelot back to Camelot..._soon_!"

* * *

Gwen set Morgana's breakfast on the table and threw open the heavy window shutters. Early morning sunlight streamed into the room, and Morgana yawned, squeezing her eyes shut and pushing her hair out of her face.

"Good morning, my lady," Gwen said quietly, although she was dying to tell Morgana what she had just observed. She waited patiently until Morgana arose, pale and heavy-eyed, and wrapped herself in an embroidered robe before moving to the table and lifting the covers on the dishes to investigate their contents.

"That looks delightful, Gwen," Morgana whispered as she sat down and reached for a goblet of water.

Gwen could contain herself no longer.

"I've just seen Merlin," she burst out as she poured out more water. "Morgana, it's obvious, you were quite right about him and Arthur."

"And what was it that enlightened you, Gwen?" Morgana asked, smiling. "You didn't catch them _kissing_, by any chance?"

"Oh, no, no!" Gwen replied, blushing fiercely. "I saw Merlin in the kitchen; he'd just come from Arthur's room, and he...he...well, he looked like a little boy who's been rolling in the hayloft. Hair a total bird's nest and shirt all awry. I think that whatever was wrong between them has been...erm...made right, if you know what I...well, if..."

"Of course I know what you're saying," Morgana said breezily, looking more cheerful than she had in days. "Well, that's lovely for them."

"Yes," murmured Gwen in a subdued tone of voice. Try as she might, she could not repress a twinge of envy, and thoughts of both Arthur and Lancelot were running haphazardly through her head.

"I'm quite tempted to go and tease Arthur about it," Morgana went on cheerfully, "But I believe he's got battle practice this morning, as usual. I'll simply have to wait. Well, Gwen. Shall we go to the market, or down to the meadow to pick some flowers for–"

"The king has returned," Gwen said, and then wished she hadn't said it as she watched the pleasure fade from Morgana's face, to be replaced by the icy, closed expression she had come to dread. Morgana's eyes went cold and hard, and Gwen sighed, wishing that she had saved the news about Uther for later. Not that it would have made things any better. How beautiful Morgana looked when she was like this, and how frightening!

"It's all right," she said in a soothing voice, as though Morgana were a child. "We'll go out to the meadow, or down to the orchard if you like. The weather's lovely, there's no need to stay in the castle. I've no desire to see him either. Come along, I'll help you dress."

* * *

Arthur was fully dressed and tapping his foot impatiently when Merlin burst through the door.

"_Mer_lin."

"Sorry, sorry," Merlin babbled as he set the tray down. "...saw Gwen in the kitchen...only chatted for a moment."

"Now _we'll _be late for _our_ meeting on the training ground," Arthur said with a touch of sarcasm. "I say, those pastries look nice."

"They're, erm, mine. Gwen says...she says your...the king's come home."

"_What?_"

"I said, they're mine."

"No, you idiot! What did Gwen say? That Father's come back?" Arthur stood up from his chair, and then sat down again, wrinkling his brow with surprise.

"She said something about a bridge being washed out. Or the host being ill. Anyway, he's here." Merlin had regained his breath and spoke calmly, but he could not keep the disappointment out of his voice. Setting the basket of pastries down carefully, he walked to the foot of Arthur's bed and sat down on the edge.

"There's nothing much we can do about that, then, is there?" Arthur muttered, gritting his teeth. "Pity. He was going to stay away a fortnight."

He stood up again and walked to the window. Looking out, he could see several packhorses being divested of their parcels and bundles, and he sighed. He could also see Morgana and Gwen heading for one of the postern gates, hoping, he supposed, to leave the castle grounds without attracting attention. He knew Morgana would not go to the king unless he summoned her, and he suspected that Gwen felt much the same way.

"I don't suppose we could cancel sword practice?" he heard Merlin say, and turned to look at him where he still sat perched at the foot of the canopied bed, hair awry and shirt hopelessly creased.

"Merlin, you look like a raven who's been caught in the rain," he murmured, strolling over to the bed. Sitting down, he flung an arm casually around Merlin's shoulders and bent towards him until their heads knocked together. After the revelations of the night before, and a night of tender and passionate intimacy, his jealousy and tension had melted away and he felt remarkably protective of the slim young man who leaned against him so trustingly.

"Erm, about sword practice...?" Merlin said again, and Arthur gave a snort of laughter.

"No, I'm not canceling sword practice, no matter what you say," he said emphatically, moving his hand from Merlin's shoulder to the back of his head, ruffling his hair brusquely. "I need the practice...and you _definitely _need it."

Merlin raised his eyebrows in an effective imitation of Gaius' favorite expression of disbelief, but the prince simply twisted his fingers in the cap of black hair and leaned forward to cover those full lips with his own. He kissed Merlin slowly, taking his lower lip softly between his teeth, before releasing him and gently pushing him away.

"You'd better stop at Gaius' to change this," he said, fingering the black velvet shirt, "Before you come to the training ground. Don't forget your shield this time, you're no good to me with your breastplate full of holes."

His head still swimming a little from Arthur's kiss, Merlin got to his feet and headed for the door, remembering to pick up the basket of pastries. As he pulled the door open, Arthur walked past him and scooped up two of the pastries, grinning triumphantly.

"Those are mine, you prat," Merlin said, smiling. 'But I'm too kindhearted not to share them. Just don't devour them too quickly, they're quite rich.."

"You'd better go while you have the chance," Arthur retorted. "Before I change my mind and devour _you_. Now move, yes?"

Merlin moved. Once he had shut the door behind him, he headed down the closest stairway, hoping against hope that no one would notice him. As he had expected he would, he passed several fellow servants, all of whom looked askance at his wrinkled velvet shirt and his rumpled hair. One or two even grinned at him but he pretended not to notice. Reaching the main portal, he encountered Gwen, alone, with a sheaf of flowers and long, ornamental reeds over one arm.

"Morgana's still down in the meadow," Gwen whispered as she passed him. "Where's Arthur?"

"Probably on his way to the training ground," Merlin answered. "I suppose there'll be a feast this evening? Now the king has returned."

"I suppose so," Gwen agreed as she headed off in the direction of the kitchens. "Don't say anything to Arthur, but Morgana's in a foul mood. And Merlin," she added, a smile quivering on her lips, "You really must go and change what you're wearing. You look like...everyone will think...that is, you don't want the king to see you looking like that."

As Gwen vanished down the other end of the hall Merlin sighed heavily and turned back toward the door, one hand raking through his hair in an effort to make it lie flat. Praying that Brutus was not on the loose in the courtyard–Gaius would not appreciate seeing his gift to Merlin in ribbons and shreds–he stepped outside. He was creasing his eyes in the sunlight when a voice behind him brought him up short.

"Young Merlin," the voice said.

Merlin spun around, squinting again as he looked back into the dimness of the entrance hall. The figure standing there moved, stepped forward into the light.

It was Uther.


	5. Chapter 5: Explanations

**Chapter 5: Explanations**

King Uther Pendragon was not getting any younger, but in spite of that fact he seemed to become more imposing every time Merlin saw him. He was straight-backed and solid, his still rugged frame soberly but richly clad in imported silk; a short traveling cloak lined with vair was slung over his shoulders, and a simple gold band encircled his brow. As usual he was unsmiling, and the glance he leveled at his son's manservant was anything but amiable.

"Young Merlin," Uther said again in the dangerously soft voice he used when about to make a particularly harsh accusation. "Kindly look at the position of the sun in the sky. Why are you not in the prince's chambers?"

"I've just come from there, sire," Merlin stammered before realizing that this statement simply made things worse. He felt the king rake him with his piercing gaze and imagined the picture he must present: rumpled and bedraggled, even paler than usual, his hair standing out from his head in ebony tufts.

"And my son? Where is he?"

"On his w-way to the training ground I believe, sire."

"Yes. Will you attend him there?"

"Yeah, erm, yes...he's training me in s-swordsmanship, sire. So that I can be a decent sparring partner."

"I see. I believe I've spoken to you before about your appearance while on duty."

"Yes, sire." Merlin mumbled, feeling his ears turn pink.

"If I need to speak of this to you again, I believe you will be revisiting the stocks. Am I understood?"

"Y-yes, sire."

"Good," Uther said in a deceptively mild voice. Merlin held his breath, wondering whether the king was considering the executioner's scaffold instead.

"I shall speak to Gaius," Uther continued in that terrifyingly calm voice. "I presume he knows that you did not sleep in your room last night."

Merlin's stomach gave a tremendous lurch and he blinked rapidly as his vision rippled. (_Don't faint, you idiot!_) Willpower kept him upright and unmoving, his expression unchanged, but his brain was racing and he could only hope that he wouldn't be sick all over the king's deerskin boots.

"You may go," said Uther quietly. But it was he who left, looking Merlin up and down once again before turning on his heel and striding off in the direction of the armory _(why the armory?_), every inch of his posture expressing severe disapproval.

Merlin leaned his head against one of the stone columns of the portal, feeling the welcome coolness of the smooth, hard surface against his sweating brow. (_Relax, breathe deeply, he has no proof, he can't know for certain about Arthur and you. Unless he has spies among the servants. He can't hurt you,you're a powerful sorcerer, you're..._) He scanned the courtyard in a single glance. No Gwen; no Morgana on her way back from the meadow; no Brutus lying contentedly on the sun-warmed paving stones, hoping for a piece of Merlin. No knights or soldiers waiting to arrest him. He took three deep breaths and then raced for Gaius' rooms.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Arthur was standing on the training field, his armor neatly spread out on a cloth-covered bench, a scowl beginning to darken his brow. Where the devil was Merlin now? He should have been there a half hour ago. Granted, Gaius may have needed him for something, but his first duty was to the crown prince. Arthur's knights, most already armor-clad, stood a little distance away, knowing better than to speak to the prince when he looked put out. The sound of footsteps alerted him to someone's approach and he turned to see the king crossing the trampled grass of the field, Sir Bors' young squire trailing behind him.

"Father. I'm glad to see you're home safe," Arthur began, but Uther interrupted him.

"Sir Bors is indisposed this morning, and as my trip has been delayed by a fallen bridge, I thought I might take a turn with you, if you've no objection to broadswords. It certainly won't do me any harm to hone my skills. Now, as your manservant isn't here, young Percy will put on your armor for you."

It was only then that Arthur registered the fact that Uther was fully dressed for combat, with his shield slung over one arm, his helmet tucked into the crook of his elbow.

"Merlin will be here in a–" Arthur began, but Uther shook his head.

"I sent him off to tend to his appearance. If I've told him once, I've told him a thousand times. Now, Percy, see to the prince's armor, will you?"

Young Percy suited Arthur up in his armor far more quickly than Merlin would have done, and then stood back respectfully.

It had been years since he had pitted his swordsmanship against his father's in a training session. Arthur reminded himself to keep his breathing slow and even as he lifted his broadsword and took a defensive stance. Uther was fiddling with the straps of his gorget, and for a moment Arthur wondered whether he should assist him. Rejecting the idea almost instantly, he waited until the king was finished.

"By the way, Arthur," the king murmured as he hefted his sword, "I suppose you're aware that your young manservant spent last night in a bed other than his own. Yes, I'm sure you're aware of it."

Arthur thanked the gods that he was wearing a helmet and his father couldn't see his jaw drop. A cold sweat began to dew his forehead, and he swallowed convulsively.

Who had told him? How had he guessed? What would he do to them...do to Merlin?

"He's an attractive boy, isn't he?" Uther said in a silky voice. "Untidy, but still..."

The king lunged forward and Arthur was just in time to parry a blow to the body.

_How does he know? Who told him? Has he_ _already_ _done something_ _to Merlin?_

"Really, Arthur," Uther continued, moving forward as Arthur moved back, "It's important to see to it that one's public image is above reproach–especially if one is heir to the throne of a kingdom."

Arthur caught another blow on his shield and feinted to the right before making an attempt at a counter-attack.

"A ruler is assessed by others on the basis of his good judgment, his demeanor, his military prowess, his diplomatic skills. And by the company he keeps, of course."

Sweat was beginning to trickle down Arthur's face, and once again he was grateful for the helmet. He was also grateful to see that his knights were too far away to hear what was being said. Uther stepped towards him again and Arthur aimed a cut at his torso, carefully pulling the blow before he reached full extension.

The knights, standing at a safe distance, leaned on their swords and watched with interest as the king and the crown prince circled each other warily. This was an unexpected pleasure, the opportunity to watch the two best swordsmen in Camelot practice their techniques against each other. It also meant that they would not have to suffer the humiliation of being beaten by the prince for the hundredth time in a row. They breathed easily now, and two or three glanced in the direction of the castle, mildly disappointed that the prince's gangly yet undeniably comely servant had not accompanied his master.

"By the company he keeps," Uther said again. "I myself have always made an effort to be certain that those closest to me were people of high station and beyond reproach. But that's neither here nor there at the moment. We were speaking of your servant, I believe, and certain liberties you've...allowed him."

_Watch your footwork_, Arthur told himself, taking a defensive stance once again. But his mind was reeling.

"I saw him earlier this morning, and it was plain as day what he had been doing," the king murmured, the corners of his mouth turned down with chagrin. "He was in as much disarray as a milkmaid who's just been tumbled by a stableboy, if you'll permit the vulgar phrase."

Arthur took a deep breath and parried Uther's thrust, aiming a riposte at his father's sword arm.

"I know you're fond of the boy," Uther went on, advancing as he spoke. "And he's saved your life, for which you are understandably grateful. But there are certain things that simply should not be made visible to the public eye."

The prince shook his head in an attempt to keep the sweat from running into his eyes. The helmet prevented him from wiping his brow, but at the same time it kept his expression of horrified apprehension from being seen.

"What the servants do in private is their affair, but I will not allow them to make a public spectacle of their relations. You shouldn't be lax with that boy, he's your servant, and his behavior reflects on you. His liaison with that young woman...Morgana's maidservant, is becoming altogether too obvious, if you ask me. I saw them together in the hall, not an hour ago."

This was so unexpected that for a moment Arthur wondered if he had heard correctly.

"I would speak to Morgana as well," Uther continued, a degree of self-consciousness creeping into his voice. "But I think perhaps the less I say to her about...uh...that young woman the better." As always since the death of Gwen's father, Uther hesitated in mentioning her and avoided the use of her name.

"You''ll say it's none of my business and ordinarily you'd be right," Uther went on. "Where the young man chooses to kennel is none of my concern––unless it becomes a subject for gossip. Or interferes with his job of waiting on you. Which it obviously does."

Arthur was so weak with relief that he allowed the king to get past his guard and felt the tip of Uther's sword graze his own breastplate.

"The lower orders are often quite incapable of controlling their bodily urges," Uther said, sounding annoyed and mildly amused at the same time. "The boy looks quite the innocent, doesn't he? Which just goes to show that appearances can be deceiving. Not that there's anything unusual about a lad his age sowing wild oats. You must simply tell him to be more discreet in his dealings with that young woman, and to improve his public demeanor as well, if he wishes to remain in service."

It was becoming difficult for Arthur not to laugh. That made twice in less than forty-eight hours that Merlin had been accused of having a mistress. He was confident that Merlin had told him the truth about the first girl, and now found it difficult to believe that he had been jealous of a rumor. And he was equally confident that there was nothing of a romantic nature between Merlin and Gwen. No, Merlin was _his_ and no one else's. Arthur could breathe more steadily now, and he pressed forward on the offensive, bringing his shield up to protect his torso as he advanced.

"I have nothing against the boy," Uther was saying as he backed away for the first time during their match. "He has saved your life...and mine, more than once if the truth be told, and he has been a tremendous help to Gaius. As long as he maintains a dignified appearance––and manages not to break everything he touches––I have no reason to be displeased with him."

Arthur managed to find his own voice. "I shall speak to him, Father," he said as seriously as he could, grateful for the third time that he was wearing a helmet. It effectively hid his broad grin and the tears of mirth that were trembling in his eyes.

"Excellent," said Uther in a mild tone of voice, his mind obviously moving on to something else. "And while you're at it, you might ask Gaius if he could make up a new batch of that salve for my knee. I still have a touch of stiffness there, and the medicine does help––"

"Yes, Father," Arthur replied as he brought his sword up, past Uther's guard, so that the tip rested neatly below the king's throat.

There was a moment of enthusiastic cheering from the watching knights, who then stifled their shouts almost immediately for fear of offending the king. But Uther seemed pleased, clapped his son on the shoulder, and lowered his sword. He sheathed it, and then turned and headed briskly toward the castle, Sir Bors' squire walking a respectful three paces behind him.

Arthur waited until his father was out of hearing, and then pulled off his helmet with a loud whoop. His knights crowded around him, beaming with pride and awe, and he allowed their heartfelt approval to wash over him as he caught his breath and wiped his brow. After several minutes of lighthearted banter–and Arthur could not remember having ever felt this lighthearted before–he took his leave.

"Good!" muttered Sir Lucan as the knights watched the prince depart. "That makes one day this week we won't have to go through the ritual of being beaten by Arthur."

"It's difficult," sighed Sir Pelleas to Sir Gaheris, one of the youngest of the knights, "To concentrate on your fighting form when your opponent--who is also your prince and commander in chief--is one of the most spectacular looking creatures you've ever seen."

Sir Lucan, who harbored a hearty lust for the Lady Morgana, made a scoffing noise in his throat and rolled his eyes.

But Sir Gaheris, who had never been able to make up his mind who he fancied more, his prince or the prince's servant, watched with wistful eyes as the crown prince strode away.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Merlin was pacing back and forth in Gaius' workroom, his face drained of color and his brow furrowed, when Arthur burst through the door.

He had spent the past hour in a state of near-panic. Gaius was out; he had left a note telling Merlin that he was making his rounds in the lower town and would not be back until well after dusk. In an effort to keep himself occupied he had changed out of Gaius' velvet shirt and made an attempt to do some work, but with no one to talk to, no one he could tell, Merlin was more than a little agitated by the time Gwen arrived to fetch another sleeping draught for Morgana. Morgana, she informed him with trepidation, was refusing to go anywhere near the king; she was in a sullen mood and barely able to speak to anyone with civility. Gwen owned up to being quite worried about her.

"Gaius will help her when he gets back," Merlin had managed to say consolingly, hoping that Gwen would not notice that his hands were shaking.

When Arthur arrived moments after Gwen's departure, Merlin launched into an account of his chance meeting with Uther.

"It's alright, Merlin," Arthur interrupted him, one hand resting lightly on his shoulder. "I know what you're about to tell me and it's alright. Father thinks it was _Gwen_ you've been, uh, romancing."

There was silence, and then Merlin croaked, "_What?_"

"He said I should tell you to be more discreet in your dealings with the ladies," Arthur went on breezily. "And to take more care with your appearance when on duty. In fact, he wanted you to see to your appearance immediately. Oh, and to stop breaking things. Apart from that, he says he has no objection to you."

"He has no..._what_?"

"Must I always repeat myself, Merlin? Arthur said acidly, hoping a prattish attitude would shake Merlin out of his apprehensive mood. "Now, where's Gaius. Father needs another dose of some medication or another. And I'm starving–have you any of those pastries left?"

When Merlin gestured silently in the general direction of his own room, Arthur–helmetless but still in his chain mail–clanked his way up the little stairway, pushed open the door without bothering to ask if he could, and located the basket of pastries resting on the only chair.

"Merlin," Arthur sighed critically as his eyes went around the little room. "How on earth do you ever _find_ anything in this mess?"

"You'd be surprised," said Merlin, and Arthur, glancing at him sharply, noticed that he was still shaking a little and the set of his shoulders was still stiff. He watched as Merlin made his way across the garment- and parchment-strewn floor and sat down on the edge of his bed, running his hands through his hair in a distracted manner.

"It's alright now, you know, really," he said gently, and Merlin raised his head because Arthur almost never spoke gently to him. "Everything's fine, no one's the wiser, not even Father."

"And," he added, grinning, "You're getting quite the reputation–as a womanizer, that is."

Merlin gave a muffled laugh, but this died away quickly as he looked up and met Arthur's eyes, which had been fastened on Merlin's mouth, the pinkness of that full, eminently kissable lower lip. They regarded one another for a moment, unsmiling, and then Merlin let out his breath slowly and his shoulders relaxed. He opened his arms, and Arthur came into them.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

"This is a very narrow bed," Arthur complained half an hour later, wincing as he tried to find a comfortable position. "And the mattress is incredibly lumpy."

"Oh, I know it's not what you're used to," Merlin snorted, eyebrows raised. "Now you get to see how the other half sleeps."

"I'm not planning on_ sleeping_ here, Merlin," Arthur replied. "And I don't know how you manage to."

Shifting again within the close confines of the unaccustomed bed, Arthur turned onto his back and pulled a yawning Merlin on top of him.

"Mine," Arthur mumbled in the direction of the ceiling, blissful with the weight of Merlin's head on his shoulder, Merlin's sharp chin digging into the skin just below his collarbone, his hair tickling Arthur's cheek.

"Yours," came Merlin's faint reply as he slid one arm around Arthur's chest. "You really _do_ have this thing about ownership, don't you," he added drowsily while the prince stroked his back as soothingly as if he were gentling a skittish horse.

"Speaking of which..." Arthur muttered, suddenly having realized that his signet ring had come off and was lost somewhere in the sheets and blankets. Merlin looked at the unadorned ring finger of the hand the prince was waving in front of his face, and began poking through the tangled bedclothes to little avail.

"I'll find it, just give me a moment."

"_Mer_lin," Arthur said in the most arrogant voice he could muster, "You couldn't find a basilisk if it was staring you in the face. _I'll_ find the bloody thing."

They were scrambling to locate the ring in the narrow bed, wrestling like five-year-olds and laughing silently, when a noise on the other side of the door made them forget both their mission and their ardor.

It was the distinct sound of rather heavy breathing, and Arthur's hand automatically went to his hip, where his dagger would have been had he been wearing any clothes.

"Good God...Merlin, is it Gaius?" he whispered, and Merlin shook his head emphatically.

"No, Arthur, it can't be. He said he would be in town until evening...and he would never stand outside of a bedroom door and _listen_! I know he wouldn't."

"Well, it can't possibly be my father..." Arthur said under his breath, but Merlin could hear the uncertainty in his voice. He himself thought it could very possibly be Uther; there was little that Merlin put past the ruler of Camelot. And if it wasn't Uther, who? One of his spies? And it couldn't be Gwen...or Morgana...could it? The thought was simply too unpleasant–not to mention too embarrassing–to bear

"Someone must have followed me here," Arthur muttered to himself as he reached for his sword.

Merlin groaned and Arthur put a finger gently over his lips. Then he slid silently out of the bed and walked to the door, sword in hand.

Torn between the desire to hide and the desire to laugh at the absurdity of the situation, Merlin stood up and moved to join him.

"Stay back!" hissed Arthur, gesturing to Merlin to stand behind him. There was a dull thud as someone pressed against the other side of the door, and with one fluid movement the prince unbolted it and pulled it open, raising his sword at the same moment.

There was a blur of motion and Arthur was knocked backwards into Merlin, the two of them falling to the floor in an undignified heap. Arthur had the presence of mind to drop and roll to the side, but before he could stand, or even sit up, the full weight of Brutus the hound was pressing on his shoulders, pushing him back again. Panting loudly and happily, Brutus looked from one to the other, as though convinced that one of the naked young men was surely carrying a doggie tidbit somewhere upon his person.

It was too much, particularly after the tension of the practice field. Oblivious to the disappointment of the hound, Arthur dropped his sword, pulled himself into a sitting position, rested his forehead on his knees, and howled with laughter.

When he came to himself, he found both Merlin and the hound staring at him solemnly, and that set him off again.

"Really, sire," Merlin said in tones of deep reproach, and Arthur could see his lips trembling with the effort to suppress his trademark grin. "If you don't want the king to disown you tomorrow, I think you'd better see to your appearance immediately."

Arthur wiped his streaming eyes. "In that case," he said, gasping, "You'll have to help me, Merlin. I only have my armor–I came here straight from the training ground."

Between the two of them they managed to get Arthur's armor back on, and his hair plastered down into a semblance of order with the aid of some water from Merlin's nightstand. Merlin simply dunked his own head in a water bucket, and stood dripping while he rummaged in his clothes chest for the least wrinkled shirt and a neck scarf to go with it.

"When Gaius comes back," he murmured, glancing about, "He's going to think a windstorm passed through here. Now, if you're still hungry–and you must be ravenous after...after...that is, after your sword practice, I'll let you have all the–oh no!"

They had completely forgotten about Brutus, who was now lying fast asleep at the foot of Merlin's bed, his distended sides heaving slowly, the empty pastry basket between his massive paws.


End file.
